


The Worst Things in Life Come Free to Us

by too many stars to count (imagined_away)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References, Sherlock doesn't know what to do with his feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagined_away/pseuds/too%20many%20stars%20to%20count
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's raped on a case but he's fine. Really. Why is everyone fussing? So he's limping a little. It will heal! He's fine. Right? Right. ...Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Worst Things in Life Come Free to Us

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=120355935#t120355935) on the kink meme.
> 
> The title is taken from the Ed Sheeran song 'A Team'.

“Greg?” John rushes over to his friend, finally spotting him in the crowded A&E. It's a Friday night, the busiest for A&Es like this one and John's wearing an odd mix of jeans and a sleep shirt – he'd been in the middle of getting ready for bed when Lestrade called him. “What happened? Is he alright? This is what happens when I let him go off by himself.”

“John,” Lestrade says looking desperately unhappy. “Why don't we go over that way,” he points to an unoccupied corner of the room, “And I can fill you in.” John feels himself pale abruptly, a thousand awful scenarios running through his head, and is brought back to reality by Greg's hand on his arm.

“He's alive,” Greg says in a low, steady voice, “They're doing some tests right now, but he should be able to go home later tonight. But, we should talk John. Come on,” he allows himself to be led to the empty corner of the waiting room.

“I don't even know how to do this,” Lestrade admits running a hand through his hair and looking like he could pass out from exhaustion at any moment. “I've had this conversation a million times but never with someone I know.”

“Greg,” John says around the lump in his throat, “Please.”

“Right,” he nods. “Okay. Sherlock was trailing our main suspect in a string of sexual assaults tonight.”

“He told me he was meeting with his homeless network,” John hears himself say. “I asked, to make sure he wasn't doing anything stupid – he said it was just the network – I – I would never have let him go alone if I had known.”

“This isn't your fault.” Lestrade says firmly. “Sherlock was probably trying to protect you in his own stupid way. You didn't know what he was doing, so don't start blaming yourself, okay?” John nods, mostly so Lestrade will tell him what happened. “Well,” he scrubs a hand over his face, “Sherlock followed him back to his flat and sent me a text with his location. I told him to wait for me but, well, does he ever?” John has a horrible suspicion about where this is going. “I don't know if waiting would have done him any good though, he said the guy knew he was being followed, apparently he'd noticed Sherlock trailing him a block or so back. By the time I got to the flat it was too late, he – he was already on Sherlock.” John's bad leg gives a furious throb and John slides into the nearest chair.

“Is he – what – what are they doing?” John notices his left hand is shaking and curls it into a fist, trying to still the tremor.

“They're taking the rape kit right now. There – there was some bleeding too, John.” He has to swallow hard to keep from being sick in the middle of the waiting room. “We have him under arrest – he's lucky to be alive as far as I'm concerned – and with the kit we'll be able to tie him to all the other attacks.” Lestrade lays a hand on his shoulder, “We got him, John. He's going to pay for this, I promise.”

Before John can do more than nod, Sherlock comes back into the waiting room. He looks the same as he did the last time John saw him, minus the small butterfly bandages covering a cut on his forehead and a slight limp. “Tedious.” Sherlock says, shaking his head and looking irritated. “Lestrade, you can go they should have the test results by – why did you call John?”

“I thought you might like some company on the way home. I know you hate the patrol cars.” Sherlock snorts.

“I'm not a child Lestrade, I can find my way home on my own. John, since you got dragged here anyways, let's eat. That Chinese place near Baker Street is open for another two hours.” No one moves for a minute and Sherlock gives an exasperated sigh, “I'm fine,” he says firmly. “Yes, I was attacked. Yes, it was in a sexual manner. Yes, I'll be limping for the next few days. No, I'm not seriously hurt. No, I don't need to sit down for a minute. And no, I am not in shock.

“Now, can we please go eat?” Dumbfounded both John and Greg nod. “Good. Lestrade, you're welcome to meet us their if you like, if not I'm sure I'll see you soon as none of you seem able to handle even the simplest of cases without my assistance. And if you mention this to anyone at the Yard, stolen warrant cards will be the least of your problems.” He rolls his eyes, “Now let's go,” and starts for the door.

: : :

For the first few weeks it's like nothing's happened.

Within a few days Sherlock is walking normally again, bounding around the flat with his usual show of ceaseless energy, running multiple experiments at once and demanding to be entertained should they fail to sufficiently interest him.

John tries, as gently as he knows how, to let Sherlock know he's there if he needs to talk, but Sherlock either ignores him or tells him to shut up as he's _working_ and can no one see that, should he make a sign so that everyone knows when he's not to be bothered? After a few days John stops offering, but he still watches Sherlock like a hawk.

There's nothing though, just – nothing.

They get cases from both private clients and the Yard and Sherlock solves all of them easily and within hours, with no signs of hesitation or distress. He eats the same, sleeps the same, does experiments the same. His deductions stay the same, as does his abrasiveness. Sherlock's never been fond of being touched by other people but it doesn't seem to get any worse in the aftermath. He still orders John to grab his phone from his pockets and doesn't react any differently to the casual, accidental, touches that are part of living with another person. He plays the violin often, sometimes for hours on end, but that isn't unusual either, it's one of Sherlock's favorite pastimes when the criminal element of London is being particularly boring and unimaginative.

It goes on long enough that John starts to wonder if his friend really is okay with what happened.

: : :

Of course right after that it all goes to hell in one of the less predictable ways.

It happens in the kitchen. Well, more precisely in happens in the bit of space between the kitchen and the living room. John's carrying plates into the living room so that they can eat dinner in front of the telly as usual (God only knows the last time the table was both clear and clean enough for people to eat off of it) and Sherlock's at the kitchen table carefully dripping what looks like some sort of acid onto different types of rocks. “Dinner's going to be ready in five minutes, mate,” John warns him, going back to the kitchen to check on the corn.

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock mutters more focused, as usual, on his experiment than anything else.

John's just making one last trip into the living room, opening his mouth to call Sherlock to dinner when he hears Sherlock exclaim, “Fuck! Bloody buggering hell!” Along with the curses comes the unmistakeable scent of burning flesh.

He runs into the kitchen to find Sherlock pouring vinegar on his hand to neutralize the burn. “You idiot!” He says rolling his eyes, “There's a reason you're supposed to wear gloves when you do experiments like this. What are you, a bloody nine-year-old?” John reaches for Sherlock's hand to examine the damage only to have Sherlock rip it away. In the process of doing so he knocks his microscope off the table.

“Oh you cock sucking, arsehole, piece of shit, idiot fucking...” John feels his eyebrows raise, he doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock swear quite this much. And he isn't stopping. Oh no, instead, it seems as if he's just getting started.

“Sherlock,” John says gently, realizing that this is it, that this isn't about the experiment or the burns on the back of his hands or anything of the sort. This, right now, right here, is when Sherlock stops being able to deny what happened. This is when he's going to have to face it and come to some sort of peace with it. With himself.

John's not sure if Sherlock realizes that though and so he waits in the archway for Sherlock to run himself down. After a few more minutes of swearing Sherlock, who had been pacing in small, tight, circles, abruptly drops down on the floor next to John's feet. “Sherlock?” John repeats, carefully sitting down next to him, close but not quite touching.

“I don't understand, why I'm reacting this way.” Sherlock admits quietly. “I've gotten much worse injuries from experiments, the microscope is fine – the slide didn't even shatter. It's fine. Everything's fine I should – I – ” It's not that it's unexpected when Sherlock starts to cry, it's that John never actually figured out what he should do when Sherlock got to this point. Well, it looks like he'll just have to wing it and hope for the best.

He slowly wraps and arm around Sherlock's shoulders and is relieved when his friend's only reaction is to lean into him. “I think the experiment was just, well, the straw the broke the camel's back, Sherlock.” An inquisitive noise comes from the area of his shoulder and John smiles ruefully. “Of course, you wouldn't know the saying. You're not upset about the experiment,” he explains, “This was just the tipping point. The one little thing that, on top of everything else set you off.”

“But what, ah, of course. You think this is about the attack.” John's noticed this before, the way that Sherlock never seems to refer to it as rape, but rather as an attack. It worries him for reasons he can't quite put his finger on. “But I'm fine,” Sherlock continues. “The physical damage is healed, my life was never in danger, I knew he wasn't going to kill me. He blamed me for leading the police to him and wanted to make me pay before he was arrested, but he wasn't a killer by any stretch of the imagination. There's no reason it should still be affecting my behavior, especially not to this degree.”

“Sherlock,” John runs a hand through his curls affectionately, “That isn't how rape works.” He feels Sherlock stiffen against him and keeps petting his hair soothingly. “It doesn't matter if you knew you'd get out alive live. He took your power over your body away from you and that's traumatizing. You wouldn't expect any of the other people he attacked to slide back into their normal lives seamlessly, would you? If it had been me, in your place, would you expect me to act like nothing had happened once the physical damage had healed?”

“No, of course not” Sherlock says, sounding affronted that John would even dare to suggest it, “But that's different. I – ”

“You what?” John asks, “The only one expecting you to be immune to your own humanity is you, Sherlock.” Silence stretches. “Why do you have to be so immune to it, but no one else does?

“If I let it bother me, then he wins.” Sherlock answers quietly. John takes a deep, calming breath and reassures himself that they can handle this. “It's not that I'm not – bothered by it. I just don't see why I'm  _still_ bothered by it. I'm being ridiculous letting him have this hold over me. No one controls me, especially not that piece of filth. I just need to have better control, and it will be fine.”

“I'm sorry Sherlock,” and God he is, he's so very sorry, “But that isn't how it works. The only way you're going to move past this is to accept what happened and let yourself heal. Otherwise you'll spend the rest of your life fighting what he did to you, and then he does win. But only if you don't move on, only if you let this fight with what happened become your entire life.”

“He's already won then.” Sherlock hisses. “I can't delete it. I've tried but I can't. I have to, John. I have to beat him. I just – if I can just – ” He starts crying again, harder, sobs wracking his body, and John can feel his heart breaking for his friend.

“He hasn't won Sherlock,” John says wrapping Sherlock into a hug, “And he's not going to,” he promises. “You're going to get through this, and you're going to be okay. It's all going to be fine, Sherlock. I promise.”

And, sitting on the floor of their flat, their dinners going cold, John knows that it will be. It will be hard and there will be days when neither of them can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but John knows Sherlock, and he knows that he'll get through this, with John at his side. He's finally admitted that something's wrong, and if Sherlock can do that, he can do anything. 

It'll all be fine, one day. It really will.

**Author's Note:**

> As always any reviews are much appreciated!


End file.
